This Other Eden (8 page)

Then,
number one. The leather struck her back and took her breath away, a sharp snap
which left a burning sensation and drove her forward against the oak. Her eyes
watered.

While
she was still
recovering from the first, the second came. The fingers of her bound hands
clawed at the air. Reflexively her head turned into the oak, scraping her
forehead. She was still in the process of catching her breath when the third
came, bringing a new wave of pain. She cried out and pressed closer to the oak
as if brought to movement by the blows themselves, her knees buckling, but her body
still held rigid by her bondage.

She
was unprepared for number four. Her breasts, caught in the press of her own
body, felt raw. What was that sound? The whip lifting again? But she wasn't
ready yet. Out of the comer of her watering eyes she saw Jack Spade angling his
body into the descent, a whir, a snap, then—

Again
she was driven forward, as though the whip were insisting she become a part of
the oak. Her back burned as though someone were holding a torch to it. Again
the breath caught in her throat and she gagged on her own saliva, her helpless
hands clutching at nothing, looking back at the faces staring at her, looking
safely, for all were a blur.

Only
five? Dear God, help, not five more. She could not endure it. As she was
contemplating her ability to endure, she suffered number six. Her head shot
forward in a grinding collision with the oak. Her legs gave away. Her whole
body shook. As from a great distance she heard a woman scream,
"Enough!"

Then
came seven, cruelly, for instead of pushing her over the edge into blessed
unconsciousness, it seemed to revive her. She caught a shallow breath in her lungs
and found the strength to stand on her feet, thus relieving the pressure on her
arms. Her eyes cleared. She saw Jenny Toppinger collapsed in the arms of
several women. The sight of the familiar face only added to the pain. She
closed her eyes while her arms tried to move upward in a gesture of defense.
But she could not alter in any way her vulnerability to the whip, which was lifting
again, slicing downward through the air. Under its impact she jerked upward,
her head fell backward, the small determined chin scraping bark, something cool
and liquid running down her back.

Surely
it was over. Why so vast a distance between seven and eight, a worldspan of
time, of waiting, seeing, focusing on her left on a small boy grinning at her?

On
the count of eight the whip caught in her long trailing hair and jerked her
head further backward, and for a moment she was forced to stare straight upward
into heaven. Her lips moved wordlessly as she struggled to digest the pain, the
sensation of the skin being torn from her back. Her hands were numb, still
grasping at air, her tongue slipping backward into her throat, threatening
suffocation. She was in her extremity now, dangling there, counting the ages
between seconds, hearing women crying all about her.

Someone
was whispering in her ear, pushing her head gently forward. Her tongue rolled
helplessly about her mouth. A man's gruff experienced voice suggested that she
give in. "Don't fight it, Marianne. Let the oak take it." Then the
tortured male voice moved back from its mindless advice and the whip lifted
again, again came furiously down. The thickness of her tongue prohibited either
speech or outcry. Her mind reeled under the damage being done to her back, the
very bones of her spine felt exposed. A leaf of darkness had fallen across her
eyes. Her fear of the whistling sound was as great as the lash itself. A high
price for dignity, purchased with blood.

Her
distracted mind lost count, drowned in grief that she had so hopelessly
underestimated the oceanic distance between one and ten. At five, she might
have endured, perhaps six. But beyond that there was only unendurance, an awful
estrangement in her bowels, ribs pressing against flesh.

Tears
ran openly down her face. One more. Number nine? The bright light of morning
faded. The grinning child stepped closer, curious.

She
was not aware of number ten. As the whip whistled upward, she felt her heart
murdered, her body swung limp in its swing, and her mind swept into a still
quiet place where it sat and prayed,

"Once
I was. Now I can rest."

Safe
in his upper bedchamber, in the confinement of a hot white nightshirt, Thomas
Eden stood at the window and endured number five. Then he turned quickly away
in search of brandy. Damn her! Damn the girl!

With
trembling hands he lifted the goblet and welcomed the burning sensation in his
throat. He resisted the urge to fling himself face downward into the comfort of
his bed and forced himself to return to the window. There he focused on Jack
Spade, a loyal fellow, performing his duty well in spite of its distasteful
nature. He would have to reward him.

What
count was it now? He'd lost track. Suddenly he noticed the crowd pull back.
They seemed to have no appetite for this public whipping. In the past he'd
known them to bring their cheese and loaves of bread, eating heartily while the
victim's blood splattered about them.

But
not now. Even from his high angle he could see the reflected horror in their
faces, the women, most of them, crying openly, a few, like old Dolly Wisdom,
obscuring her face with a square of white linen. And there, the girl's father,
grinning like a magpie, obviously drunk or drugged in order to endure.

And
the girl herself? Thomas looked more closely at the pinned, white, bleeding
back. His eyes grew fearful at the sight of what he had done. Perhaps he had
gone too far. He might in time have confirmed her loyalty, wooed and won her,
and led her skillfully to his bed.

Now
she would be ruined for all time, her back scarred, her virginity worse than
useless. Even men who had been publicly whipped acquired an unrecorded look, as
though they were being tried by the continuous blows of an unseen adversary. If
they survived, they wore an unwilling set of features, they became old without
reward, generally dying young.

Then
what would it do to her? In a sudden agony he again felt compelled to turn
away. Remorse invaded him. His eyes scanned the scene below him as he saw that
it was blessedly over. Jack Spade dragged his whip through the air for the last
time, then hurled it angrily into space and ran off down the narrow wind which
led to the Servants' Hall. Thomas knew he would be drunk within the hour and
well he deserved it.

He
saw the crowd push farther back as though to put a safe distance between
themselves and the poor creature hanging on the oak. From where he stood it was
his guess that she had lost consciousness, her legs spread relaxedly about the
oak, her entire body slipping down, the hair cascading over the damaged flesh
of her back.

Why
didn't someone go to her? In the name of God, why didn't someone— He saw old
Ragland shooing the witnesses even further away, waving them back toward the castle
gate, clearly disbanding them.

Only
then did Thomas remember the customary conclusion of a public whipping, that
the victim was to remain on display until sunset. No! Suddenly everything in
him resisted the spectacle he would be forced to endure for the rest of the
day. In a surge of anger, he stepped forward, flung open the window, and
shouted, "Cut her down. Take her away!" His voice echoed across the
inner courtyard, summoned all eyes to him. In an attempt to cut through their
simpleminded bewilderment, he shouted again, "I said take her down. It's
over. Remove her!"

Upon
the second command, he saw Ragland designate two men and two women who quickly
separated themselves from the crowd and moved back to the whipping oak. As one
of the men cut the hemp from her wrists and ankles, she collapsed in a small
heap, revealing bleeding breasts. Hurriedly one of the women draped a shawl
about her shoulders. The men lifted her gingerly into their arms.

Thomas
watched until the sad procession disappeared through the gate and continued to
stare down on the courtyard, empty save for the guardsmen closing the gates. A
wave of nausea rushed over him. He closed his eyes and sank to his knees beside
his bed. He had gone too far, God have mercy, he had gone too far. His
authority was still intact, but his soul was not faring so well. He would make
reparation. He would pay for her dress, and when she healed, he would take her
back into the castle, give her another chance, assign her some simple task, and
give Dolly Wisdom stem orders to look after her, as though she were her own.

There
the prayer stopped. But his conscience, newly revived, punished him
mercilessly. Not
when
she healed. The question more accurately phrased
was
if
she healed.

He
bowed his head lower, groaning. Why was there not someone here to keep him from
himself? He was not worthy of Eden, not fit to administer justice, certainly
not fit to pass judgment.

His
eyes narrowed, a plan evolving to relieve his misery. He would fast the whole
day. Neither food nor drink would he take. He would imprison himself in this
room, bare his flesh, refuse all succor, and spend the day in prayer and
fasting. He had done so before and the discomfort had been good. Surely God
understood. God would forgive him.

His
ship could wait. Part of his self-imposed punishment would be to deny himself a
firsthand look at his illegal treasure. His booty would wait, earth itself
could wait. He must first purge himself of her blood.

He
went to the door and bolted it, stripped off his nightshirt, and fell on his
knees beside the bed. . . .

Carrying
an apronful of medicines and a flask of brandy for revival, Dolly Wisdom ran as
fast as her age and breakable cargo would permit after the sorrowful procession
making its way down the side of the cliff. Her thoughts were as erratic as her
steps as she bobbed this way and that, trying to avoid the puddles left by the
morning rain. Clearly his Lordship had gone too far this time. She had never
witnessed anything so barbaric in all her sixty-seven years, the public
flogging of a sixteen-year-old child.

She
spied the guardsman at the gate and hoped, for his sake, that he did not give
her any trouble. He didn't. As she drew near, he hurled himself at the pullrope
and dragged up the iron grille, permitting her ready passage. She noticed that
it was old Dobber, an ancient guardsman who had been in service at Eden Castle
almost as long as she. She saw his weathered face slightly pale as though he
had not recovered from his close view of the wretched creature who had been
carried out ahead of her.

As
she scurried past, he called out mournfully, "She'll not live the night,
Dolly." Dolly started to reply but decided to save her breath for the
treacherous descent and not waste it on Doubting Thomases.

Once
outside the gate, she paused, glancing over the vast headlands, majestic green
cliffs leading down to a white fringe of lapping water. "God's View,"
the natives called it

The
breeze was always good here and she lifted her chin for respite from the heat
and the nightmare of the morning. Dolly was a spinster approaching old age. She
had risen in service at Eden Castle from a scullery maid at twelve to the
awesome position at sixty-seven of House Warden, a breathtaking climb for
anyone, but an extraordinary ascent for a woman of low and questionable birth
and no education.

She
was admired and respected on both sides of the castle wall. She had a beaked
head, a body fleshy and growing feeble, but still ferocious, that somehow made
her resemble a plump gaming cock. While she frequently talked about everything
being the "death of her," it was accurately assumed by all who knew
her that she would survive intact forever, along with the ancient and sturdy
cliffs upon which she was now standing.

As
the sea wind blew through her prim black skirts, she listened to the surf
below. Upon seeing again in her mind's eye the bloodied figure of Marianne
Locke, she felt her emotions rise with unprecedented fury. There was no excuse,
no excuse at all. This was 1790. She had thought that the English mind and
sensibility had exhausted itself of such barbarism.

As
she moved quickly toward the narrow path which led down the cliff, the movement
of her head was as jerky as though a nerve had broken. She should have
intervened on that day when it happened, should have insisted that Lord Eden
give the girl over to her. She had been aware of the child's arrogance and
airs. It wasn't that Marianne was a bad girl. Her indulgent father had simply
given her her head too soon.